


Safe (Word)

by OtoRose, ZoeGMiller



Series: The Rearing Of A Fine Lady [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Consent, D/s, Dominance, F/F, Fluff, Hurt and comfort, Roleplay, Slapping, Submission, bondange, punish the cutie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-11-01 07:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10916736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtoRose/pseuds/OtoRose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeGMiller/pseuds/ZoeGMiller
Summary: Oboro and Beruka share a unique ritual.(warning: intense (consensual!) bdsm involved! because these are snapshots of existing d/s relationships, and the scenes themselves are fairly dialogue-light, please read with the understanding that consent and limits have already been established)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!!~ This is a bit more varsity level than the stuff I usually do, so I wanted to give people at little heads up! I don't think it's like super-hardcore as far as d/s goes, and my hope is that I illustrated consent and after-care correctly and properly, but all the same--please tread carefully if you feel you're sensitive to these things!
> 
> As always, please take a look at my [commission rates](https://zoegmiller.wordpress.com/commissions/) and my [patreon](https://www.patreon.com/zohg)!
> 
> Happy reading! <3

She hadn't counted the days. It was simply… convenient, that she'd had a reason to keep checking at her calendar, as the weeks went by.

It was several months after the end of all that business with the invisible kingdom, and relations between Nohr and Hoshido had not just cooled, but already sprouted the beginnings of a fresh, juicy fruit. With diplomatic relations in a tizzy—all of it centered around the lynchpin that was Corrin, it had become somewhat common for dignitaries to travel back and forth between the two kingdoms, often dragging their shared, beloved princess back with them on the return trip.

It was, however, somewhat rare that such noble personages would call upon a humble kimono shop in the village.

Indeed, that's exactly what caused Oboro such an alarm, when the lilting voice of Nohr's eldest princess, Camilla, called for her across the shop floor. "You there, dear! Have you seen a sweet, bloodthirsty little slice of silence scurrying around anywhere?"

"Excuse me?" asked Oboro, coming up from behind the corner with a thick ball of coarse brown yarn held between her hands. "A… what?"

"My retainer." Camilla corrected herself with a whisper of a chuckle. "A dour slip of a girl, only about this high, robin's-egg hair, doesn't talk much?" 

Apropos of nothing, Oboro's brow burst into a beaded sweat. She shook her head. "A-apologies, ma'am, I don't believe I have."

"Isn't that strange…" 

Though, in a way, they had been comrades in the war, Oboro had never been this close to the princess; close enough to notice how even Camilla's touch of a slim finger to her lips, poised as if in quiet thought, seemed to wind a coil of transient power loosely around Oboro's throat. Oboro shifted uneasily, glad her curling toes in their open sandals were hidden by the counter. Before she could catch herself, she spared a fleeting glance to her storeroom. "If you've nothing else but that I—"

"Serena, didn't you say you saw her come in here?"

"I said I _didn't_ see her come in here," Camilla's retainer replied through a baffle of hanging kimonos. Stepping around the obstruction, she slouched against the wall and crossed her arms. "You were the one who insisted we check in this…" A pause, for better judgment. Then, an impatient flick of her pigtails to prove she possessed none. "Run-down little boutique."

"Serena~" Camilla chided.

In response, Serena crossed her arms, and spoke through pinched lips. "No offense intended."

"N-none taken," said Oboro, squeezing the yarn ball between her palms, grateful for the momentary excuse to break with Camilla's intent gaze.

"And I was sure I smelled…" Camilla spoke with gauzy thoughtlessness, curling a wandering finger through a springy lock of her hair. "Do you do any leatherworking, in this shop?"

"No ma'am; mostly it's kimono's, a-as you see…"

For some reason, Oboro's hands gripped the yarn until her knuckles went white.

If she'd had spent more time with Camilla during the war, she wouldn't have been so caught off guard known how easily power could have sublimate into malice at a whim. Though Oboro was tall herself, few women could claim a height like Camilla's, and, in that moment, the princess of Nohr loomed over her like a mother would an unruly child, and there was an ember of a glint building in her red eyes that suggested something…

"Camilla!" called Elise's voice through the open window. "Are you quite done in there? Corrin's waiting!"

"Yes dear!" Camilla said. Her mood pivoting with warning, all malice evaporated into the humid summer air as she nearly sing-songed her words. "Just a moment!"

"Camilla," said Serena, yanking her head towards the shop's open door. "She'll catch up when she catches up, like she always does."

"It pains me to think we're off to feast on pheasants while our dear Beruka subsides on…day-old bread or some such, but I suppose you're right." Camilla spared one more glance at Oboro over her shoulder as Serena nearly dragged her from the shop. "Please, if you see her, ensure my little lost lamb is delivered safely back into my loving hands, won't you?"

Confronted by the paradoxical unmeance lacing through Camilla's final smile, Oboro could only spare a dry swallow and a feeble nod. 

And she barred the door to the shop, shut the curtains, and hasted back to her storeroom as soon as the princess and her retainer were out of eyeshot.

"Whew!" She braced herself against the storeroom door. The bodily shove she used to shut the heavy door was nearly as exaggerated as her sigh of relief, and a bit of dust shook from the rafters. "I thought she'd _never_ leave."

The thick, tall bolts of cloth piled against every wall of the small, windowless storeroom dampened the creak of leather, as Beruka's drooping head lifted, and her posture straightened—as much as it could, anyway, given her position. Her nose twitched, tickled by the falling dust, and her eyes watered a bit 

Oboro closed the distance to Beruka in a pair of measured strides. Then… she indulged herself. 

A seamstress examining her handiwork, Oboro took quiet pleasure in the simple knots of colorful silk that lashed Beruka to her seat. Splashes of bright red trussed her shins to the chair legs, and her wrists, together as one, were tied to the slats of the backrest by a spider web of lavender—a rather subdued shade of it, of course. 

Oboro relished in the spark of tension that fluttered and flexed through Beruka's shoulders as she stepped out of eyesight. Wordlessly, she placed the ball of yarn in Beruka's upturned hands and Beruka, with slightly ducked head, obediently squeezed a hold into the rough wool. 

She'd practiced these knots for weeks, by candlelight, on her display mannequins, in this locked storeroom; it was the only place she could be sure no one would see. Of course she was proud of herself. However, it wasn't any of these, but the intricate knot gag that silenced Beruka, which stirred that hum of absentminded pride past Oboro's wickedly tented lips. 

Cinched between Beruka's lips, grazing just under her earlobes, and tied at her nape, the many-threaded piece of multiple, gauzy silk kerchiefs, colored red, azure, and lavender, culminated in a resplendent, circular ring that braced her teeth and lips open, and stifled speech, yet provided no obstruction for any wheezes or moans that might come…

It was, in so many words, a masterpiece.

Oboro didn't realize she was staring until an instinctual reaction stirred in Beruka, and she offered a single understated thrash—a quiet test of her bonds.

"Subdue yourself," said Oboro.

A tremor crawled up Beruka's spine, lazy as an earthworm. Her bound hands flexed their fingers impotently, vainly seeking an illusory itch they could not reach.

Otherwise, she was still.

Drawing her kimono up to her knees, Oboro then mounted Beruka, straddling her legs, embracing Beruka's leather-clad thighs with her bare flesh. Taller than the small Nohrian assassin by a fair margin, she had to tilt Beruka's head upwards to meet her eye to eye. She felt Beruka's muscles go taut. She heard the clutch and whisper of fingertips against the yarn ball. She even saw the stiffen of Beruka's jaw, a will to clench teeth she could not redirect or diffuse.

But, at the touch of Oboro's palms against her cheeks, Beruka stiffened her neck, and applied what meager resistance she could, given the situation.

At this, Oboro leaned forward. For the scantest instant, her weight compressed atop her captive, and the heavy presence of her breasts against Beruka's face muffled Beruka's moan of complaint—if not the stoically suffering chair's.

Confirming that Beruka still held the yarn ball in her hands, Oboro leaned back. This time, she only offered the pressure of a single fingertip against Beruka's chin. 

"Look at me," she said.

Beruka squirmed absently at the hips. Words dissolve will like acid; at the suggestive push of Oboro's fingertip, Beruka's steel-colored eyes lifted. With dutiful timidity, she met the gaze of her captor. 

…for all of a second or two…

A tenebrous smile claimed Oboro's lips.

"Well then, shall we begin?"

With a nascent whine, Beruka pulled down the corners of her mouth, and her breath exited her with a petulant huff.

Labored as it was, it was the least encumbered breath that Beruka would make for the lion's share of the afternoon.

The first was the most tense. 

Oboro enjoyed putting her fingers into a flat line and swishing her hand lazily before her. She drank in the fearful glisten of Beruka's eyes, following the motion of her hand, watching it cutting the thick summer air like a slow, hot knife. She felt Beruka's muscles torque, shiver, and pull between her thighs. The steadying thrum of her heart brought with it the imminent sensation of goose bumps and sweat across her skin.

A thunderclap of flesh on flesh broke the room, as Oboro's first strike hit home upon Beruka's waiting cheek.

There's a pause, that comes after that first attack; something of a ritual. Oboro tilting Beruka's chin upwards, and her head from side to side. Examining her. Watching as the last vestiges of resistance drain from her eyes as quickly as the redness blooms on her cheek. Her pale skin turns pink as cherry petals on her pale skin. It's a simple color, almost gentle, considering the deed that summoned it. 

It wouldn't stay that way for long.

But, her spine arched and ready, her palm ringing with the impact, her hand poised in the air like a goddess summoning a thunderbolt, there's something Oboro needs to hear first.

A sniveling whine of frantic need whistled through Beruka's nose.

At that, Oboro was unleashed.

They lost themselves to the frenzy of it. Sometimes Beruka would shirk from the flurry of blows, sometimes she would meet them boldly. Sometimes it seemed that every strike shook loose new wants, new feelings, new hurts. But even the absurd shiver of her eyelashes against the budding tears could not mollify the steely intensity of her eyes, glaring up at Oboro with unhesitating endurance and furor.

No, they both knew, there was so much more work to be done.

As time went on, every wall of Beruka's remarkable resistances shattered. Her eyes winced, and her moans came with painful regularity. Oboro's thighs clenched around Beruka's legs hard enough that she could've leaned full backwards without a fear of falling. Beruka's cheeks glowed hot as coals, and her falling tears seemed to sizzle across them as if they truly were. Oboro's hands were just as red, or brighter, even, and each time they released a complaint of an ache on impact with Beruka's ready flesh, Oboro only resolved herself to strike harder on the return. A rabid, bestial energy took her—the remnants of a center lavender-haired princess that visited her shop, perhaps. Uncapped, she could no longer think to stow this. She would feed the beast below her, exactly as required.

First, she leaned forward. The chair and its occupant creaked with her, and she confirmed that Beruka still held the yarn ball.

Second, she groped a fistful of Beruka's short hair.

Third, she let a hissing torrent of breath, releasing air until her stomach met her spine.

Then, she truly went to work.

With every hit, Beruka's chest grew tighter and tighter in her jerkin. Her notrils flared and suckered for breath. Tears spilled from her like rain, like stream trails down mountain rock.

This was just.

Oboro's bare skin around Beruka's leggings was moist with sweat and tension. Even through the haze of battle—she could feel how baldy her cinching hold around the leather chafed her thighs. 

This is what she needed.

Her hair had come lose. Dampened by sweat, it whipped the air with and she had neither the sense nor the care to bind it back up.

This was correct.

A ringing filled Beruka's ears. Her lips groped at nothing but air, and her teeth ground at the gag, and her tongue would sometimes poke from her mouth, because just blinking her eyes was enough to overcome her senses. With every breath, she's begun to grunt and whine like something difficult yet powerless. A common animal. A unit of livestock. A pig. A sow.

This is what she deserved.

A shame burned like wildfire deep in the pit of her stomach, as the smack of Oboro's fingers sometimes abused her vulnerable, open mouth, and, overcome by the effort of simply breathing, her head eddied back and forth by Oboro's rage like a hurricane-swept ship, her gasping overcame her, and she began to drool…

But who?

Oboro roared to the rafters. All that mattered was this moment. These impacts. All that mattered was this Nohrian… this Nohrian… this Nohrian… 

"Scum!" Oboro shouted, with each bruising impact. "Scum!" And the crack of her open hand across Beruka's waiting cheeks, again, and again, and again, and again. "Scum!" It would never stop. "All of you!" She would never stop. "Every!" Slap! "Last!" Whack! "One!" Crack!

Then, she heard the dribble of the yarn ball as it escaped Beruka's clutches and bounded in newfound freedom across the dirt floor of the storeroom.

Immediately, her hands were in her lap. And the shared sound of their harsh breathing filled her ears. She felt a shiver down her spine, but it was like a tearing, too, that dragged her back to the surface.

Oboro's hands did not idle long; a seamstress's never truly do. With expert motions, she untied the gag from Beruka's neck, and encouraged the wet, suckering gasp of air that spilled forth from her lover in a painful, clenching embrace. She took that sobbing, sniffling head against her breasts and set a hand so firm between her shoulder blades it might as well have been welded there. When the minor hits of panic ebbed from Beruka's breathing, Oboro was there to press a sliver or two of chocolate between her lips; taste was the sensation that best brought her back, they'd found.

When the shaking slowed, and their first wave of senses returned to, Oboro dismounted her love. Though her hands were shaking, she cautiously undid the ties around legs and wrists. Of course, the ones around Beruka's wrists were tied that any rambunctious girl, much less a trained assassin, could've undone them with a minor bit of squirming, but Beruka waited to be set free all the same. And when she was, she hardly groaned but an instant, as she wriggled her toes in her boots and felt the briefest inkling of numbness washing away with her pulse. Oboro took Beruka back to the unspooled bolt of cloth at the back corner of the room. She'd prepared it days ago. It was too good of a cloth to leave lying out on the dusty old floor, but she'd been too excited for things to be set up anything other than perfect.

She was a fastidious sort, after all.

There, she held Beruka to her, and massaged the feeling back into her unbound wrists and calves, and gently painted her crimson cheeks with sweet-smelling ointment for the pain and swelling. Quietly, Oboro devoted herself to these duties, until such time as Beruka's hands meekly reached for her. 

There, they trembled together, for a little while, with Oboro's long hair doing the generous work of concealing both their faces until all their tears were shed.

When there were no more sniffles left in either of them, and their eyes grew bored of chasing the dust motes through the beams of light that snuck in through the rafters, Oboro turned to Beruka, and rested her cheek upon her reddened hand—so intent was she at looking into Beruka's eyes, Oboro hardly noticed the swollen ache of her throbbing palm against her face.

"She's a monster, that mistress of yours."

"She's…" Beruka paused and swallowed; she always returned slowly, to the use of her voice. The laughter that filtered out of her was uncertain not just due to the hoarseness in her throat. "She's something, all right."

They had a laugh. And a dab of sake, once that was done.

After that, they could talk about many things, and they shared a few hours enjoying a small meal, each other, and themselves. A peace like no other fell upon them, and both were grateful that they enjoyed the other's company so much that there was no a space in the timeline of their affections to spend ruminating on and ruing how fleeting these shared moments could be.

Before she left, a shyer Oboro ducked her head, and reached for Beruka. And Beruka took both of Oboro's hands in her smaller ones, looking away, and blushing as crimson as the eyes of her mistress. Oboro was used to these moments, when reality came back to bear, and Beruka resumed up her stoic… 

…it wasn't a guise, was it? It was something else of her, but no less true for it.

She never begrudged Beruka her silence in these moments. Quite the contrary. _How lucky am I_ , Oboro would often think, _that I know this woman in two ways, when the rest of the world—indeed, even as far as Beruka's mistress herself—might only ever know her in one?_

And so, Oboro spoke those final words as she always did, through a smile overwhelmed by love and melancholy in equal parts.

"Same day next month?"


	2. the Tidal Crush of a Hero's heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Beruka who's been sneaking around behind their Lady's back, so why is it Selena who's forced to take the punishment???
> 
> Beneath the weight of her Lady's hand, and the whole world besides, Severa finally unravels.

Camilla's laughter rang across the table as she regaled the gathering with her quip about Oboro's shop. "Did you know, darlings, that her name means "foggy?" She _certainly_ seemed to have that effect on my lovely little Selena. As soon as we crossed the threshold, her eyes glassed right over, and she went into a haze! It's almost as though she forgot who I was! I think she might have a bit of a crush—but I understand that Oboro is deft with her hands, after all!"

"I-I-I do not!" Selena stammered, as Camilla launched full sail into her story. "Y-you're the one who charged into that shop searching after that mute midgefly." She wasn't blushing... yet... "You... You practically dragged _me_ in there, sniffing the air like a bloodhound... and... and..."

"Is that so?" The benign, matronly smile Camilla offered Selena contrasted mildly with the knowing raise of her eyebrow. Bloodhound, indeed. "Regardless; it's a shame dear Beruka couldn't make it; I'm sure she'd have all manner of lovely tidbits about our haze-inducing seamstress to keep to herself."

"Ha~zy!" giggled Setsuna, staring Selena down across the table with her drowsy eyes, a leg of hare in one hand. "I like Oboro. She HATES Beruka, though. They used to fight a~ll the time! My room was right next door to hers. Gosh, I heard them scrabbling with one another con~stant~ly." She tittered sotto voce again, and took a huge bite.

The dinner, as planned, had been simple—Corrin and her Nohrian siblings—but Xander, stony-faced, had bowed out to speak on matters of state, leaving Laslow to shoulder his share of the social event (there had been no question as to whether Peri would attend). Leo had brushed the dinner off, claiming frivolity, and sent Odin in his stead, and Odin had claimed at the door to have had a 'nigh-pregnant tete-a-tete with the very handmistresses of the Apocalypse!' and had pushed a confused Ophelia through to take his respective place. Thus disrupted, Camilla had quickly seen fit to add to the guest list with those who were both convenient and, as she put it, 'suitable'.

Selena, for her part, was happy, despite being sat next to Laslow, and all that entailed, that Soleil wasn't present, and told Laslow as much. That girl would take a league if you gave her a look. And Selena wasn't much for looking at _anyone_ generally, least of all right now.

"Fighting?" Ophelia mustered. "In Oboro's room?" 

Setsuna dropped the meat, and nodded lazily. "Oh, yeah. DEFINITELY fighting. Fighting with the Noh~ri~an Scu~m. Pow! Pow! Over and O~ver!" 

Beruka, that _idiot_. What she did in her own time was her business, but funny how that managed to somehow slink into her NOT own time too. Moments such as these, where her midday liaison with that Hoshidan cloak-mender morphed into a long, evening rendezvous. How convenient that Beruka was conspicuously absent from the dinner table, leaving Selena to bear the lion's share of Camilla's affectionate harassment.

"Oh will you can it already?" Selena pursed her lips, and lifted her nose pointedly away from Setsuna's leering visage. "From what I've heard you can't tell a snare from a sleeping bag, so... so I don't know what you THINK you heard, but..."

Setsuna's eyes fluttered closed, she sighed, buoyed by some memory, then offered a laconic, "No offense~"

"None taken, darling, I'm sure!" Camilla's smile was sweet and superior. "But there's nothing to fight about any more, I'm certain, so I'd hope that they've put their little squabbles behind them. And if they were truly fighting, well, certainly darling Selena would have told me so, and I'd have lopped that troublesome weaver's legs off at the knees!" Camilla and, somehow, Setsuna managed to laugh. "Isn't that right, dear Selena? You'd never keep anything from me, I know."

Selena slunk lower in her chair as she felt the levy of Camilla's gaze upon her; tabulating her, searching for a weakness, a crack, a way in. She stuffed her mouth with chicken; a preemptive measure.

Beruka that IDIOT. Just muttered things like "I'm going now" or "Be back by evening" just _Taking. For. Granted._ that poor, long-suffering Selena would cover for her. And she never even ASKED, which was the worst part of the whole sticky, stupid mess.

"I was NOT crushing on some dusty old seamstress." 

Or WORSE, didn't even think about it at all, the runt!

I do not KNOW what Beruka gets up to when she vanishes into thin air like some bite-sized specter."

And now, to sit here and bear the slings and fricking ARROWS of Camilla and her coterie of hand-selected dignitaries... and that drowsy wench staring at her from across the table with those lewd eyes... 

"Nor do I CARE."

Between Setsuna and Oboro, Selena was beginning to understand that Hoshidans came in two flavors. Dimwitted as a bag of rocks or angry as a horny bull.

"And finally I have NO idea why we're still TALKING about this while I'm forced to watch this narcoleptic half-wit's poor excuse for table manners gets hare gravy all over Ophelia's over... over... over-exposed hecking VITTLES!"

She squirmed in her seat, thighs a bit pushed together by the occasional pressure of Camilla's gaze…

...getting a bit redder now...

Selena crossed her arms and stared at her plate, slouching in her chair. She'd been looking forward wasn't hungry anymore.

"Vittles?" Ophelia asked, following Selena's gaze to her attire, which _some_ might call revealing, certainly. "Then so be it!" She grinned, clenching her first in the air. The insult seemed to have gone over her head—or, possibly, she was better at hiding her true feelings than some members of the dinner party. "By these vittles, I shall claim a virtuous and vicious victor—"

Corrin opened her mouth; a hand on her thigh gently let her know who was hosting the dinner. Camilla clucked her tongue patiently at the redhead. "The welfare of my retainers is as important to me as my life! I won't take either one of you precious lost creatures in just to lose you again, whether it's to foul magic or to some overenthusiastic vendetta!" She looked up across the table with a beatific smile. "And for the record, Ophelia, dear, your outfit is fit to charm the scales off a succubus! Being a sorceress suits you, and I simply cannot wait to see what dark forces you'll conjure next!" 

Selena crossed her arms and stared at her plate, slouching in her chair. Despite the stress of covering for her fellow retainer's little sojourns with her Hoshidan wench, she'd been looking forward to the feast, and she was starved enough to eat a whole brace of rabbits, but, for some reason, she couldn't muster the energy at the moment.

A bemused smile across the table, where a candle had gone out. "Most recent intelligence does indicate that Beruka entered Oboro's shop, but has yet to return..." Kagero leaned forward, into the light. Camilla's choice in dinner-guests may, in fact, may have been based entirely upon modesty and exposure—"vittles" abounded, so to speak, enough to silence even Laslow. "But, as this is the third such event in as many months, I would not concern myself overmuch, your Highness." 

Selena spiked a morbid glare at Kagero for reopening the matter, when it had already gone over to the much more suitable topic of Ophelia's ridiculous tits in that ridiculous get up. At least the conversation seems to turn away from her, at that point.

Camilla arched an eyebrow. "Third? My darling little berry has been dashing off into the fists of that barbaric weaver for months?" She turned to her retainer, then back to Kagero. "Well, she must be enjoying herself, then! As many marriages as our war saw, you know, I don't believe Oboro ever took a partner, did she? I suppose some of us must be terribly lonely. Still, I do so wish Beruka had told me! I tried so hard to find both of my darlings someone suitable, you know, but Selena's just so... attached to a certain someone."

Getting redder...........

"T-that's just..." Selena laughed anxiously, looking around the table, all eyes suddenly on her. "W-w-what are you talking about I don't... have..." A self-conscious chuckle, a squirming 'eh-heh-heh' under her breath as she felt a cold sweat prickle her brow. " any... one… like… that…"

She TOLD Camilla that IN PRIVATE. And why are we talking about matchmaking now, of all times?? She wasn't her mother! Selena already *had* a mother, an *abysmal* one who never did anything wrong and was perfect and beauteous and if SHE had to cover for her INGRATE PARTNER and her INGRATE PARTNER'S SEWING SLUT the great and awesome Cordelia would probably build them a whole secret pleasure dungeon and EMBROIDER THE DAMN PILLOWS herself, only she wouldn't need to BECAUSE BERUKA PROBABLY SPENT TWO NIGHTS resting her bruised and beaten ass on CUSTOM-MADE OBORO-BRANDED SPANKING CUSHIONS.

Why did her doublet feel so warm?? What idiot was stoking the fire in here? It was practically mid-summer and humid enough to soap a horse!

~everyone~ was ~looking~ at ~her~

"Ugh! Why do any of you even *care* what that taciturn little rugrat does?? She certainly doesn't give a horse plop what any of US do, or want, or what lengths we go to on ~her~ ~silent~ ~behalf~. She doesn't have any friends, she ~definitely~ doesn't have a "partner" and wuh-wuh-whatEVER she's doing wuh-wuh-with that _Smelly Hoshidan Cloak Darner_ b-b-behind closed doors couldn't possibly count as..."

Right before she trips right over the line and into a chasm of exposure, Selena's eyes go wide and her jaw drops. All speech hits an abrupt and, presumably fatal, conclusion.

"Yes, darling. I think that's quite sufficient for a single dinner. Corrin, do make Felicia chill a dessert for the table. Elise, if you will proceed as the elegant hostess I know you are, I will have a word with my beautiful, impulsive retainer." Camilla rose to her feet, her smile never wavering, Selena's hand firmly clasped in her own. "Come, darling. Gossip has its limits, after all."

Mournfully, Selena flicked her eyes between Camilla's uncompromising expression and the unfinished bounty of food on her plate. "B-but I haven't fi—"

It was all she could say, before Camilla's hand on hers stifled her. Camilla armor rang as she strode from the table, practically dragging the redhead behind her. And Selena, without other complaint, she followed her Lady away from the table like a kitten carried by her nape in her mother's teeth, listening numbly as Elise rallied her dinning companions through the pregnant pause Selena's outburst had foisted upon the table.

Several hallways and one heavy door later, Lady Camilla stood before the fire in her room, seemingly impervious to the hazy midsummer evening heat. "That," she purred, flexing her fingers in their kidskin gloves, experimentally, "was an exceptional show." 

"I-I can't believe you!" Selena stomped one of her heavy boots upon the carpet. "That... that was so... so *rude*!" She crossed her arms and flicked her head, turning up her nose, her pigtails shivering like furious tendrils behind her, and.................................

"What is _rude_ , darling, is when a powerful, strong, independent, beautiful woman, sworn to service and loyalty to a Mistress who loves her dearly, decides to keep extremely dangerous secrets." Camilla tugged at the hem of her glove, tightening their fit with an audible squeak. "I had worried that the Hoshidan had the nerve to try and buy Beruka's contract from me. What do you think would have happened to your Mistress if she'd lost her assassin? What do you think would have happened to you?" 

Her gaze is warm steel.

"...y-you shouldn't pry into..." came Selena's meager reply, as if entranced. Camilla's fingers, the squeak of the glove; it was hypnotic.

"Imagine my relief to find corroborating sources—multiple!" Camilla tittered at the word. "Stating that it was simply my darling Beruka's cold heart finding life! Why, I couldn't be happier for her! All this time I was terribly worried, just absolutely beyond words, when I should have been overjoyed." Camilla smiled beneficently as she spoke, looking like she could dance on air at any moment. 

Then, Camilla's smile evaporated into the humid air. "And all you had to do was your duty. Rude, _indeed _."__

__Selena's body shook._ _

__"Nevertheless, now that you've made your position clear on our dear Beruka, it occurs to me I ought to clarify your position too."_ _

__...and then Selena realized why she was brought here. What her conscious self had been denying throughout the evening. The meaning behind the full, weighted looks Camilla had spared during dinner. She noticed how her thighs ached a bit; she'd been clenching them beneath the table..._ _

__"Disrobe, darling. I will not have my retainers at odds. Or," she said, her richly malevolent gaze filling the room to its corners, "keeping secrets."_ _

__Her doublet was already unfastened, halfway open, her small clothes obvious beneath, before Selena looked away, blushing. "I-it's her business, however she decides to—"_ _

__"It's _your_ business, of course, what you choose to tell me and not to tell me. But I want to nothing more than your trust, your heart, and your loyalty. But you've been distracted, darling." Her gloved fingers graced amiably over Selena's jaw. "You've had so _very_ much weighing on you."_ _

__Selena bit her lip, coming to hard grips with the unquenchable quiver of her knees. Her own fingers clenched—without the benefit of gloves—impotently, at her sides._ _

__"Are you angry with her?" Camilla asked._ _

__With her empty hand, she reached beside the bed—a collection of long, reed-like objects awaited her questing fingers._ _

__"Jealous of her, perhaps?"_ _

__"I didn't..." Selena looked away. It just seemed... very... sad... whatever it was Beruka did with her precious seamstress. She... didn't think it should be _her_ choice… whether or not to share it. _ _

__She was red as roses. She was dizzy as a stunned bee. The room was so hot she could hardly breathe. And the sound of Camilla's gloves…_ _

__Even through her protests, she undid her doublet, and took her trousers down to her ankles, where they caught around her boots. She shifted uncomfortably, working toe of one boot against heel of other, dizzied by the heat and the lecture, zombie-like, her heart pounding against her ribs. She couldn't find a way to take them off, petrified beneath Camilla's gaze, but terrified of breaking from it._ _

__"I wasn't..." Jealous? Why should she be? Some wench from some backwards nation in a backwards time, no less. Why should she care what the little assassin got up to, or how many of whoever's fingers got up in *her*. That wasn't the point!_ _

__"Have I neglected you? Is that the cause of this… unfortunate lapse in judgment?"_ _

__Selena shook her head, speech was leaving her, quickly._ _

__She quaked a little, lithe and muscular in her small clothes, looking like a ripe fool ready to be plucked, shackled with her trousers around her ankles. Feeling like a maggot, with tears brewing in the corners of her eyes. Feeling even more like a fool, pining for a girl from a different time. A girl who might not wait, if "wait" even had meaning in such matters._ _

__A gasp was born and quickly died in Selena's throat._ _

__Severa wasn't sure if she removed her doublet, or if the unremitting quiver of her fragile body simply shucked it from her shoulders. It caught at her elbows. Her breasts swelled outwards with a deep breath. She realized her exposure, when Camilla's fingers swept slowly along the tattoo on her right shoulder. It was a brand; a mimicry of the true one her lost Hero bore. Indigo blue…_ _

__…the color of her distant love's hair…_ _

__When Camilla's hands left her shoulder, Selena quickly moved to cover the tattoo with hers, as if this were some shame to be hidden._ _

__Camilla's eyes took on a narrow cast, and the back of her hand swept gently along Selena's cheek, the softness of her glove elegant against her skin. The touch of soft leather against her face, but it was that name that made her gasp. "Have I neglected ~ **Severa** ~?" _ _

__There's a heaviness to that word, that name, and a permissiveness, too._ _

__She had been so..._ _

__lonely..._ _

__"Let Lady Camilla carry that for you now. Is Severa ready for her punishment?"_ _

__At the question, "Severa" silently nods._ _

__With Camilla's guidance, Severa's doublet fell to the thick carpet. She stood there, trembling in the thin, white shift that covered her breasts and stomach, and soft, cotton trunks that hugged her hips._ _

__Camilla lifted the crop from the bundle, teased its leather tip along Severa's neck, between her breasts. It had a wicked sting when swung, or when she so much as flicked her wrist, and left a pleasing (to the Lady's eye) red welt along Severa's skin._ _

__It would match her hair, Lady Camilla mused._ _

__At the cool touch of the crop, Severa trembled. Severa gives a quiet moan. All but unable to speak. The anticipation filters through her blood, and her breath comes in staggered little gasps as the crop explored her. Its firm edge tickled her sensitive skin through the meager barrier of her shift. It traced her body without judgment. It was pure, in a sense, as was the potent aura of Camilla dizzying her overwhelmed senses._ _

__Camilla let the implement trace down to the woman's navel, all the way down to the core of her. As it wound back upwards, it snuck beneath her slip, touching her muscular stomach, around her right breast, against the scar on her right side, the one the girl had suffered long before her first trip through the worlds._ _

__"Who are you thinking of?" Camilla mused._ _

__She wanted to respond. She wanted to bare her soul and spill her guts out onto this floor, for her mistress and the world to see. She wanted to pull the sticky essence of herself out and out. To cleanse herself of these feelings. Hatred. Envy. Loneliness. Anger. Frustration. Jealousy._ _

__But the question was rhetorical; Camilla had not yet given permission to answer._ _

__Please, she thought, remembering the taste of the crop on her skin from nights past, afraid of it, but desperate for its impact at the same time. _Please.__ _

__She'd be denied._ _

__Camilla sat on the bedside, almost motherly, patting instructively at the thickness of her thighs. "Down. Across my knees."_ _

__Severa shuffled over with the shackles of her pants. She was petulant, immature, unwholesome, even vile. Under her Lady's patient, watchful eyes, Severa laid her bare body across Camilla's lap. She sunk her nose into the soft comforter on the bed, and her booted feet dangled off of the side. Her breathing was stifled and thick in her throat. At the instruction of her Lady's touch, she lifted her hips, allowing Camilla to take her trunks down to her thighs, and expose the offering of her rear. She shut her eyes against the wetness that built there._ _

__"That's a good girl. Now. Arms out in front, flat. Hold this." Camilla inserted the crop into the redhead's outstretched hands, palms down. "And hold it tight."_ _

__Severa holding the crop as instructed, knowing it wasn't to be used, disappointed by that, fearful of what would take its place._ _

__Camilla's hand roved across Severa's rear, exploring. "It's been so long. Who, I wonder." In tandem with her speech, her hand rose, threatening. "That big, strong girl, with a cock like my forearm?"_ _

__Punctuation; her hand descended with an echoing CRACK! across Severa's pale, muscular rear, reddening the skin._ _

__"Naah!" Severa moaned, through gritted teeth, as the first stroke came. The soft leather of the glove stung at her bare skin. She grips the crop, hard as she can._ _

__"Or the flimsy, spellbound thing, who slapped you rigorously about the face and spent whole nights inside you?"_ _

__A feinted strike. The whoosh of air across Severa's rear brought some relief from the heat of the fire for a moment._ _

__It was an instance of time almost too small to measure._ _

__"Or someone different? Some other love?" Another resounding CRACK! as gloved hand met flesh._ _

__Tears well up. The second impact knocks something loose, and Severa begins to pant. She is jolted. Her mind dislodges._ _

__The fingers of Camilla's other hand traced Severa's lips eagerly._ _

__CRACK! Again._ _

__On reflex, her lips part for her Mistress's fingers._ _

__The intrusion of Camilla's fingers into her retainer's mouth isn't forceful. It isn't violent. Her progression as inevitable, as true power always is. One finger, then two, then three, tasting of leather and just barely of the fragrant cunt they brushed against before claiming her. It is a claiming; she is not fighting or struggling to control this woman, but pressing inward in a display of ownership and power and, in this special way, undeniable comfort._ _

___You are mine_ , the gesture speaks. _Release control, give yourself back to me.__ _

__Camilla's open palm finds powerful, resonant home once more on the girl's reddened ass, her voice as nonchalant as if she were having tea. CRACK!_ _

__"Naaah..." Severa whimpers, as this questing opens her body. Her jaw unclenches. She has to be as careful not to bite down, once the striking begins in earnest, as she needs to keep her grip on the crop._ _

__"Or was it the hero, the sweet, lonely girl, the pretty one who was ravishing—or should I say _handsome_? Was it that look of hers, when she put her hair up like that, which stole your heart? You have such a tremendous heart, darling Severa, and you've made space for so many of us..." Cozening. Soothing, with her words. "It's no wonder you've made yourself so protective that you'd lie, even to me..."_ _

__Crack!_ _

__Yourself._ _

__Crack!_ _

__Protective._ _

__Crack!_ _

__Lie._ _

__Crack!_ _

__Even._ _

__Crack!_ _

__Me._ _

__In rapid succession her blows fall, even and powerful, opening the girl up, bringing her soul to the surface. The skillful impacts colored her skin, hurling Severa ever towards the limits of vulnerability, but never past. With each strike Severa shattered exhales push air past Camilla's questing fingers. Then, in reflex, Camilla allows a moment of stillness, until she feels Severa drag it in again._ _

__Camilla catches the reek of Severa's need, filtering through the thick summer air like scented dew, muddling with her own heady lilac aroma. She can feel the pounding of the powerful, fragile heart that lays above her knees._ _

__This is her Mistress. This is who knows the heart of her._ _

__"Breathe. Cry out, if you must. There is no sin in crying before a Mistress who loves you."_ _

__These soothing words, why do they hurt so badly? Why do they sting worse than the impacts on her flesh? Her rump quickly pinkens, her toes curl in her boots. She shakes, as she accepts her punishment, and that she needs it at all shames her so badly that she could cry._ _

__But she doesn't._ _

__Camilla's face is careful and placid as her hand continues its crashing tirade against Severa's body, strike after strike, each one strong enough to send a lesser woman reeling—after all, Severa was no lesser woman, and to withhold her own strength would only draw a different, less desirable humiliation to the woman. She might tease or cajole, but she would never condescend in such a way. Not to her loves. She would never hold back, never relent. She would give her beloved retainer exactly what she could handle, to the ounce, to the second. Every weight, she knew, every force, every iota of energy flowing through the foolhardy, precious woman brave enough to rest upon her lap._ _

__"Naaah!" A more urgent sound, tongue flexing against Camilla's fingers as the pain begins to burn through her flesh and into her core. Severa shakes, terribly as a leaf in a torrent. Her soul screams, cinders above a bonfire. It isn't fair! Why does it have to be her that's treated this way? Why did *she* need to be punished for what *Beruka* did. Why did she tell Camilla all these things, why did she pull apart her skin and show her heart, give her mistress this power over her soul. Why did... why did..._ _

__Why did she always end up all alone???_ _

__Her tongue flexes against the intrusion of Camilla's fingers. Her chest chokes a little in pre-sob. And a pair of twinned trails run down her body. Down her cheeks. Down the insides of her thighs. Warm, wet slips along her skin. Why did it matter which was which? They were the same. She squeezes the crop so tightly her nails dig crescent welts into her palms._ _

__Camilla's fingers catch at the Severa's twitching tongue, and press in, never a passive player in her games. Another strike, lower this time, on the backs of her thighs, sending fresh blood roaring to new, untouched skin. The sound Severa makes is something like a sob, and something like a whinny of fear and pain as these new vulnerabilities are tested, and even more sensitive areas are threatened._ _

__Camilla sees fingers tremble tight along the crop, and feels the heave of the woman's chest. She halts in this torture, in this release, long enough to confirm that Severa's grip holds firm._ _

__"Would they stop me, if they could see me? Would they simply stare at the wonder of their Severa, brought to heel?" Her gloved fingers roam gently across the woman's rear, setting reddened skin alight with nerves, parting the crack of her ass, gently exploring that tender crevice and the tensed muscle there before retreating to the tight firmness of her cheeks once more. "Or would they join me? Would they stroke your hair and hold you down, even as I apply your punishment?"_ _

__CRACK!_ _

__Images conjure from Severa's shaken-free heart. Noire's frail hands upon her shoulders and the scent of her small, pretty, cock before Severa's ready mouth._ _

__She is panting in full now, like an animal, breasts heaving against the bed beneath her, shoulders tussling._ _

__"Would they permit this shameful behavior?"_ _

__CRACK!_ _

__Kjelle's hands on Severa's back, huge, coarse and powerful. The feel of her weight between taut and tensing cheeks…_ _

__It's not obedient, the way her hips and rear buck and sway, trying to shake out the discomfort, but it takes all her effort not to drop the crop, not to bite down and grind her teeth on her Mistress's probing fingers._ _

__Her Mistress pounds against her with the flat of her palm, again, again, again..._ _

__CRACK!_ _

__"Each blow is not just for your Mistress, and not just for you, but for them…"_ _

__CRACK!_ _

__She shivers and shakes and writhes—a beast in full._ _

__"Until they can be here to join you beside me."_ _

__A silhouette beside her—the silhouette of a Lord—holding her hand...._ _

__One final crack; and the fire roars in tandem fury, like a heart long-denied._ _

__The crackling of the fire, in the too-warm room, fills the silence for what could be a long time, or not much time at all. Camilla's gloved fingers free Severa's mouth, and traipse curiously in wet trails along the sun-flare color of her bottom, drawing_ _

__"Has Severa anything to say to her Mistress?"_ _

__She is too far gone to even care that she's crying. She's just angry. She's mad, and most of all she's mad at herself that she's so angry. Stupid Beruka. Stupid Camilla. The intimations of that idiot archer and that ninja with the over-ripe tits and Kjelle and Noire and... and..._ _

__And everything! And EVERYONE!_ _

__CRACK!_ _

__The crop hits the carpet with the mildest thump imaginable as Severa's will gives out, as everything pours out of her, all at once._ _

__Camilla wastes no time gathering her darling retainer up, cradling her close against the softness of her body, undoing bootlaces and removing trousers, then pulling her gloves off and unlatching her armor deftly so that there is nothing to stand between the redhead and her Mistress's abundant flesh._ _

__Mute Selena trembles upon her Mistress's lap. Trying to curl up. Wanting to lose herself in the folds of Camilla's thick body. Now that the play is over, and her Mistress frees her mouth, her sobs can likely be heard up and down the corridor, and her face is nearly as red as her rump, once the tears start in earnest._ _

__And they flow for a very long time. Dams hold back lakes, but not forever. Resist too long, and you've done nothing but buy your future self a tidal wave._ _

__"There, there, Selena. Come back, when you're ready." She coos in her retainer's ear, tracing fingers to clear the tears as they fall. "You're safe, and you're here, and you're beautiful..." Once she's convinced that her redhead's secure on her lap, she reaches out to the table by the bed, for the little pot of unguent. Camilla dips her fingers inside, leans Selena gently forwards, and strokes her hair with quiet affection as she smoothes the thick, milky, soothing formula across her smaller love's burning rear._ _

__"Aaann..." Selena moans, swept up in the pain and sting of the ointment, and potently aware of her body. Deft and careful as her Mistress was, some things would always hurt. A hiss of air between her teeth, as she waits for the sting to subside._ _

__"Are you here with me? Are you well?" With her voice, she centers the woman. "You took so very much, and there's so much to let out..."_ _

__Selena becomes attuned to her body by its fragile shuddering. Her tongue feels overlarge in her mouth, her breasts are so. Her legs fidget. It sounds like she's being called out to from across a distance, through a thick fog of memory._ _

__"...Lucin...?" She asked, dazed._ _

__No, not her._ _

__Shamed by her gaffe—why can she never be perfect? Why isn't she perfect in anything?—Selena flinches inwards, curling herself into a ball…_ _

__Or she tries to. But her Mistress is there to guide her. Sit her the way she needs to be sat, hold her the way she needs to be held._ _

__"I-I'm... I'm..." Her voice croaks, she hates the burn of her cheeks more than the burn of her rump. "I'm here..." She says, meekly. A quiet voice that few who've known the underdog swordswoman have ever heard. And only in situations like this, where deft, kind fingers filter through the pigtails and set the world at right._ _

__Ointment-greased fingers slide carefully, gently, along Selena's velveted cunt, mingling with her dew, before dipping back into the pot once more to apply another layer of cooling, soothing thickness to that poor, abused rump._ _

__A different hiss of air, when the lotioned fingers slip broadly along the broad length of her cunt. It brings fresh tears to her eyes, but these tears she could sustain... if they didn't remind her of the ones still drying on her cheeks._ _

__Her Mistress offers her a questioning look. Her fingers alit tenderly against Selena's entrance. The subtle incline of a sensuous eyebrow that says nothing, yet asks…_ _

___Is this okay?_ _ _

__There is a liminal space, at times like these, where she isn't sure if she's Severa or Selena, or something of both. Whoever she is, this impish, impudent woman acts in that twilight moment. Impulsively taking Camilla by the wrist, holding her there. Closing her thighs._ _

__Begging._ _

__Camilla's cheeks only show the slightest pink when her retainer seizes the moment, and she smiles, even though her retainer—impudent, boorish, demanding—would not. Her fingers brush the brave swordswoman's dewed folds like the whisper of silk._ _

__Selena's open lips pantomimes a silent gasp. Her chin tucks forward, like an animal lost in a need. Looking up with tear-glittered eyes, Selena whispers...._ _

__"Will I always be alone?"_ _

__"Darling! You have the temerity to serve me, to hold me against yourself as you do, to beg my service of you, and you say such a thing!" The words are spoken as though she were asked if wyverns fly. "Are you alone, right now?" Her smile is as sweet and generous as her body, and her fingers press gently inward - claiming with a certainty, just as they did her mouth. One, then two, against the force of Selena's grip on her wrist._ _

__"Nnhhhh…" Selena whimpered, body arching out and away, in struggling contest with her needy spirit. Her thighs clenched and writhed in deep possession around her Mistress's wrist._ _

__Camilla leaned in to press her lips against the curve of her retainer's ear. "You recall what I said would happen if you ever tried to run away, don't you?"_ _

__The implied threat that Camilla whispers privately to her sends a stronger jolt down Selena's spine than the impact of her fingers fluidly claiming her inner reaches in their easy, confident stroke. Selena wrinkled that petite nose of hers, and her cheeks flared with panting breath, looking like a student scornful of her lesson as she is lectured. Embarrassed. She thinks to say it's different. She thinks to say Camilla is _wrong_. That Camilla has Corrin. That Beruka has her... wench. That everyone HAS someone... but her…_ _

__Though... she wonders if that's the most important thing... r-right now..._ _

__A gentle bite upon that ear, as Camilla spread her fingers inside that precious warmth, which dwarfed even the hearth's fire._ _

__"Naaah!" Selena cried out, feeling the tightness spread inside her. Oh gods. She saw stars. The imprints on her abused rear become a constellation of pain with her squirming, and as her slickened rump smears the thick unguent back against her mistress's stomach as she squirms and her toes curl, releasing a pant._ _

__Her retainer was tighter than a fresh sin. How long had Selena denied herself this touch? Camilla must, she mused, have been terribly neglectful, to let her doting Selena get to this state..._ _

__"Every time you lie, or you lose yourself, or you start to drift away from me, I'll bring you back, just like this."_ _

__Impudently, Selena hooks an arm behind her, an elbow around her Mistress's neck. It's all she can do. Even relieved, she's afraid. She's still so scared. It takes such an effort to twist her body, to pivot at the spine so she can look her Lady in her eyes. Her lips quiver and shake. She snuffles like a spoiled aristocrat. Her nose fidgets and flares above her upper lip, sticky and abraded. Her pigtails flick and shiver, as if they were alive, with the squirming, pained motions of her body._ _

__And her deep, soulful eyes—shining so bright that one might wish to capture them in a bottle, so all would know them as the jewels they are—beg for everything her mistress will give, and thank her for all she's done._ _

__Impudent, that was her. Especially to think such things; that she could be alone, even in this moment._ _

__When Camilla drives into her, she cries out. She falls into some ungodly, infinite chasm. The ground opens up, and so does she. Around her Mistress's touch, Selena blooms._ _

__Camilla coos at her retainer's unexpected release. So deeply restrained, the poor thing! She's careful to be gentle as she draws back her fingers, and gathers up the girl once more. She seems so small in her arms—Camilla's so close to her, so familiar, that it's easy to forget how fragile Selena is, and how careful she must be._ _

__…at least, in times like these._ _

__"You're wonderful, and beautiful, and faithful, my darling. You've had to be so many women, and each of them had to know a whole army's worth of strength." Camilla cosseted Selena's cheek in her palm, to lift that leaden head, so that she could speak to her beloved retainer eye to eye, and her beloved retainer would know every word was true. "I'm so happy you've wandered here, to me, and I'm so glad you came back to me just now."_ _

__Her hands work carefully, her clean hand combing through and smoothing Selena's hair, brushing away tears. "I'll not tell anyone how pure and beautiful your heart is, not 'til you've got the person you want me to tell, and I'll protect it with my life 'til you've got them... or until they come back to you. I'm sure they'll make a wonderful retainer for me, too." She smiled in what must almost certainly have been half-jest._ _

__"But as long as you're here, as long as you want it, this is your home. You'll never need to be a different woman, and you'll seize what you want and I'll give it to you."_ _

__Were those tears in her eyes, as Camilla clutched her Hero close? Her arms wrapped around the woman, tight, and Selena's own tears were clean—spectres of the past, dear and beautiful, were there, in the past. She might seek them someday, or they might seek her, but in this day she was her own woman, her greedy mercenary heart taking all on offer, just as hearts do, and giving just as much, if she had to admit it. Reluctantly._ _

__Naturally. Of course it gave. When others were worthy of it. They were all lucky to have her, weren't they?_ _

__Camilla raised her hand and wiped the tears from Selena's cheeks, pressing the woman to her bosom, easing her rear to Camilla's plush lap._ _

__And really, whatever Beruka was sitting on? Probably ratty, in comparison._ _

___Definitely_ ratty, and it serves her hecking right._ _

__Selena ducked her head. The corners of her lips quirked upwards in meager, fragile smile. When she became brave enough to meet her Mistress's gaze, softly, she spoke._ _

__"Yes, Lady Camilla."_ _


	3. The Soothing of Hardened Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reeling from their individual encounters, Selena and Beruka reconvene at the end of the night, and share a quiet accord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I've been away for so long on this work!! I'm hoping to get back into the swing of things, but always know that you can force the issue by donating to my [patreon](https://www.patreon.com/zohg) and requesting I continue something specific--like this very story!

She watches her Lord.

They sit together on a makeshift picnic sheet. Night by the lakeside had a chill all its own, the last vestiges of summer ebbing off into the start of a pleasant autumn. Honeysuckle was in the air, a touch overripe. It made your mouth water, if you let it. Sweet. Overly sweet.

A trail of nectar rolled down her Lord's chin as she leaned in, close enough that the sweetness of fruit on her breath filled Severa's senses.

“Would you like a taste, Severa?” she asked.

Severa felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She leaned in, opening her mouth to say...

_“ANGNNLBLEH!”_

Selena yowled into her pillow as pain stripped her from her dream and back to the surface of the waking world.

It was some moments of writhing, growling and thrashing against the constriction of sheets around her body, before she realized the traitorous sensation was...

She'd rolled over onto her bruised ass in her sleep.

Gosh _damn_ that hurt.

Wide awake, thanks to the Camilla-imbued stings torturing her haunches, Selena kicked the covers away and lifted herself up on her knees. Tucking her nightshirt away from her rump, she reached for the nightstand and set about painting her stinging flesh with the soothing ointment.

The first daubs stung even worse than the bruises, and she hissed into her pillow. But after that initial suffering was dealt with her skin began to cool, and her thoughts began to wander.

She realized how her whole body ached with tension. Like the acidic burn of a muscle clenched for days, now finally released. Her mind was clearer than it had been in weeks.

She wished she could remember her dream...

“Atch—!” She yipped, as her slick fingers ran over a sensitive, purpling spot on her rear.

“That sounds painful.”

The words were flat, devoid of real sympathy or even meaning—a doll, mimicking a human.

Selena neatly shrieked, fleeing to the safety of the covers like a spooked possum. She hadn’t even heard the creak of the door hinges.

Of course, it was a matter of contention whether Beruka COULD actually cause a door to make noise upon entering a room, whether it was a Hoshidan sliding panel or a heavy slab of Nohrian oak.

On realizing who it was, Selena’s face jutted out from the nest of her hiding place, a nascent grimace dimpling her florid cheeks. “DON'T YOU KNOCK!?”

Beruka's reply, naturally, as she approached her own bed. “It's my room too.”

The small assassin never intruded into Selena's personal matters, though her actions were certainly frequently intrusive enough, and it was much the same when her eyes narrowed on the small pot of ointment as she took in the scene.

“She found out.” Beruka said. And even the announcement of her realization—that Camilla knew she’d been sneaking around with Oboro behind her back—was said with all the impassivity of a slumbering bear.

A short intake of breath. Selena was poised like this, haunches spearing the air, exposed, glistening with ointment and… and… _She Found Out_? That’s all that bean of an assassin could manage to say?

“Let me take care of that.”

“I can handle it just fine,” Selena replied.

“You can't see. You'll just make a mess of it.”

To say something in her voice melted, or softened, would be to misstate the case. Beruka's voice was not icy, or cold. Beruka was not icy. She was soft as a footfall in shadow. She was accommodating. But beneath that softness lay a blade ready to strike. To be soft and small and unseen, and to reveal herself only when ready; that was her weapon. This change. This mild slip of wet, warm water down the glacial front of her, is what drew Selena’s attention. Hesitantly lifting her eyes from their busywork examining the stitching on the bedspread, she examined her roommate, her partner.

There were reddened bruises around Beruka’s face, faint in the moonlight—faint _as_ the moonlight—half-hidden by the immaculate shawl on her neck...

Her shawl...

Selena, who had a mind for fashion, couldn’t _not_ notice such things—even in compromised situations such as these. When Beruka'd left, a day prior, the edges of the shawl had been ragged from years of wear, a bolt of fine fabric left to weather. But about her neck it was pristine as new, hemmed and tasseled, shimmering with secret cloth-of-gold in the dim light.

“Come,” prompted Beruka, looking off to a corner of the room as Selena’s inspection went over long. “It's no different from dressing any other wound.”

“...it's your fault anyway...” Selena mumbled, a flick of her hand confirming her assent.

Beruka never flinched from the truth. She nodded, curtly, with a slow intake of breath. “Some of it is.”

There was a strange half-moment where she seemed to be far away. But it must have been an illusion. _Beruka_ , of all people? Beruka didn't daydream. Beruka was always present; dangerously present.

“I stayed a little longer than I should have. That was my mistake.”

But then the small shadow managed an actual smile. “But she didn't punish you as a warning to me. I can't imagine she would think that a mere bruising would make an assassin change her mind.” An arched eyebrow. “Especially not _where_ you were bruised. She'd have done something vicious if she wanted to send a message. I think...” She smiled, once more. She took a moment, a soft inhale of air between parted lips, before she spoke again.

“I think your bruises are very like my own.”

“That's neither here nor there...” Selena said, softly, unable to quell that embarrassment boring twin holes of flushing energy in her cheeks.

There was nothing WRONG with it. There was nothing BAD about it. She wanted to say these things, as much for Beruka's benefit as her own. She wanted to...

...tell herself it was okay, to want things. To need something. To need THAT, even. To crave something that blanked your mind, that took the pressure off, that made you feel better... even if just for a few hours…

That it was okay…

…to be something other than perfect…

Struggling, Selena brought herself to sitting upright—well, not QUITE upright, she course corrects, after putting a bit of weight on her rear sends a cringe and a wince through her. Still nestled in her blankets, she patted the side of the bed, looking away.

“Want to sit?” She asked, through teeth hardly gritted at all.

Beruka, for all her acerbic silence, understood a generous moment. And, for all of that, felt a sudden… need… for such things.

She'd only been away from the shop a little while, but already it stung her. She'd been visiting Oboro more and more frequently, with shorter and shorter gaps between; of course her employer and confidant would both notice. But she'd indulged anyway, hadn't she? It was foolhardy.

But, she was learning, foolhardy things often paid with great dividends.

“Thank you.” She lifted her hands, showing them empty, and then, by her bed, divested herself of two small throwing hatchets, a larger hand axe, a vial of poison, a near-miraculously produced steel splitting-axe, two daggers. Shown to be weaponless, she accepted—as graciously as possible—the offer.

Selena’s nose scrunched gently at this display. “You’re so weird.”

Beruka remained diplomatically silent. Or, perhaps, silence was her agreement.

She sat at the foot of the bed, leaning back on her hands and gazing up at the shadows the lamplight cast across the stone ceiling. She noticed how still the bed was beneath her. Selena was frozen, like a prey animal trying to evade detection.

“It feels... good.” The words felt dusty between her lips, and took no small effort, and a little bit of visible pain—her jaw was darkened by blossoming red. “To be sitting next to someone, without weapons. Without fear. It's good to know that there is someone else who understands. Even if I am only imagining that you do.”

“Well that's a rude thing to say,” Selena replied curtly, pursing her lips. Why was Beruka always so... so... so... like...

...THIS!

But what was “this” Selena? Direct? Tactless? Unwilling to allow—or, more likely, not even thinking of them in the first place—the social niceties that let conversation flow? Could she not even pretend, even in this instant? She couldn't round up to it? If she couldn't, then Selena would MAKE her get it; Selena would PROVE she understood.

“Tch.” As she spoke, she carelessly lowered Beruka's shawl. “If it had to be some Hoshidan wench, why not at least an herbalist? Your seamstress doesn't know a thing about treating bruises.”

There was an instant, when Selena took hold of Beruka's shawl. It was a very complicated instant, as understandings tested themselves and resolved beneath the surface of the assassin's mind.

_I could take the shawl and strangle her, she's already pulling it down and won't expect my forward momentum, and wouldn’t be able to compensate backwards._

Selena took Beruka by the chin, examining her mild bruises in the soft moonlight. “Here, you should be using this...”

_Her hand's not braced; it would be easy to lock her arm and break it, and force her down from there._

Selena reached for the bedside point of ointment. “It's a special blend *I* came up with.”

_Her eyes are unguarded and vulnerable, then a killing blow to the solar plexus._

 “Comfrey leaves, arnica, and some witch hazel. ~Perfect~ for bruises. By morning no one would even...”

All this as the woman's unexpected hand rose towards her throat…

_Lady Camilla would not approve._

…and set about gently painting Beruka's face with her fingers.

_I'd never see Oboro again._

At that gentle alight of fingers upon stinging skin, Beruka’s mind reset.

_Selena is my friend._

“Thank you.” Beruka’s exhale was so sharp her chest tightened, and her breasts ached in their bindings.

“Be careful,” she said. “Please.”

_Things are not as they were._

She didn’t even wince as Selena's hand seized her round chin, held her in place to get a look at her damage. For the second time that day, she felt almost painfully vulnerable and exposed before the eyes of another. Her eyes closed, and she let forth a warm sigh—new, painfully full, strong feelings. She felt engorged by them.

Beruka indulged in the slick, gentle sensation of the ointment along her cheeks. She didn't wince, though, as the ointment was applied; she still lacked sufficient grace to know she ought. But it did steal the sting from the bruises on her cheeks and jaw, the orbit of her eye.

“You really are very good at this.”

“Of course I am.” Selena said, with dogmatic pride. “You have to be, if you want to do these things. You have to be careful. You have to make sure THEY'RE careful with you; but that's their job too. Which is why I'm upset. Because you're letting such an obvious rank amateur—”

Still, as she chattered on, part chiding mother, part eager confidant, she felt a question bubbling to the surface of her stomach, just about to break for air...

“Who would guess that we would permit it...” Beruka murmured, almost to herself

The word caught Selena up, and the blush of her unbruised cheeks intensified spectacularly. As did the furrow of her brow.

“Permit...?” She asked softly, against the thunder beat of her heart. Saying these words would be admitting it to another person, another besides you and Camilla, that you need something. That you need IT. That you _want_ IT. That you...

It's not Camilla who asks these things of her; it's her who asks these things of Camilla.

A sudden guilt coils around Selena's stomach like a hungry serpent. Her hands fall into her lap. Carelessly, she fidgets her fingers together, unaware of the quiet squelch of the ointment that adds a caste of silliness to her otherwise melancholy pose.

“Beruka, you...” She took a breath. “You shouldn't _permit_ things like that; you do them...” She took another. Her eyes grew misty, and a rigid shake of her head quivered her ponytails. “It's something you _want_ to happen, not something you _let_ happen.”

The arms of Selena’s nightshirt came back damp, as she swiped the coarse cotton against her face.

It took quite a while, before her low, quiet voice filled their small corner of the large bedchamber.

“I'm sure she's nothing compared to Lady Camilla.” Beruka, who spoke slowly as a rule, now spoke as if she were inventing each word as she went. “Oboro is very pretty. And she's proficient with knots. But our first time... she was afraid. I was the one that asked her, because I burned inside for this feeling. We... _I_ spent so much time killing that I couldn't feel anything. When the two of us went together, and bought our matching rings, I started to feel _something_. When I spoke to Oboro of my master, and of her parents, I started to feel _something_. But everything I am, all my life, got in the way of that feeling.”

Selena opened her mouth to respond, but for the first time in her long relationship, she found that she had nothing to say.

“I asked her to tie me up, so I couldn't run away, so I couldn't defend myself or strike back, so that I'd _have_ to feel everything. We agreed on all of our terms.” Of course, to a businesswoman and an assassin, agreements would come as second nature. “And... even though she's an amateur? She made me feel. Everything that I feel for her, and she feels for me. It's complicated. We're still discovering all of it.”

Was that a glimmer at the corner of her eye? The beginning of a laugh?

“But whatever it is, we have that because I permit her to touch me, and because I permit myself to be hurt.”

She took a slow, deep breath, and at the end of it. A more centered, calmer Beruka. The little storm beneath the surface was contained, for worse or for better.

“I expect Lady Camilla is different with you. More sophisticated. You probably both know what you need.”

 _Yes,_ Selena thought, with a haughty little lift of her chin. _We both know_ exactly _what we need_.

No, of course she didn’t think that. She didn’t think anything of the sort. For all her knowledge of rules and technique, for all her obsession of doing things perfectly, the concrete WHY of it eluded her. She knew it felt good. She knew it brought a thrill to her heart. She knew exactly how she felt, after the first time, trailing her fingers along her aching skin and marveling at how free, how unburdened by it all she felt.

Why did she like it?

Why did she need it?

Why did it make her feel better, and make the hurt go away?

Selena’s question eked its nefarious way up her throat. Squash it, she insisted. Be quiet. Don't ask.

“...can I tell you something?”

With a cant of her head, like a curious animal tracking an offered treat, Beruka slowly nodded.

At that meek permission, the tidal wave came. Selena, unvarnished, looked into her friend's eyes as her own quavered with tears.

“I asked her to do something I shouldn't have. There are rules. Her lower lip trembled as she spoke. “I-I asked her... I asked her to... t-t-to touch me, after it was over. After I said stop.” Her head barely moved, even as her lips trembled, even as the tears rolled down her cheeks. “I couldn't take it. I felt so alone. Everyone has someone. S-she has Lady Corrin. Yuh-yuh-yuh-you have that seamstress. What do I have? Nothing. No one.”

How alone, she was. How alone she'd ever be.

“I-I felt like such a coward, asking for it. I-it wasn't even be-be-because I was turned on.” But she was. “I-it wasn't even because of how badly I love her.” But she does. “It was just... it was... only...”

A sharp tug, about Selena's waist, forceful and quick.

Selena leaned forward, no resistance in her to Beruka’s advance.  Beruka, pulling her against her body, as if the taciturn assassin weren't six inches shorter and twice as prickly as she. Still warm. Still soft. And, despite herself, doing her best to provide comfort.

Had she ever done this before? Unlikely; if she'd ever so much as received it, it was likely from Lady Camilla, or from Oboro. Nevertheless...

Selena’s elbows on her thighs, her palms grinding into her treacherous, seeping eyes. “I broke the rules. I begged *her* to break the rules. Juh-juh-just because it was the only proof I'd accept that anyone cared about me at all.”

It was already accomplished, whatever was happening. It hardly needed Beruka's tug for permission. The floodgates of her heart had opened. She would’ve begged a rabid dog to hold her, much less this assassin, her nominal friend—by proximity, if nothing else.

Still, permission was nice.

So Selena wrapped her arms around the wisp of her friend, reined Beruka to her twice as hard as Beruka reined her to she. Sadness found Selena in great, sobbing gulps, and she made an absolute, snotty mess of Beruka's shoulder as she poured out her loneliness, her grief, and--most potently, if not most importantly--her shame.

“You broke a rule.” Beruka spoke with a hasty clip. Empathy was not in her repertoire. The words were muddled in her head. She spoke them quickly, for fear of never getting them out at all. “That's fine. You aren't perfect. If you were perfect, we wouldn't be friends. I'd be working for you, or you'd have killed me.” Matter-of-fact, easy as the weather. “It's better that you aren't. I'm going to apologize tomorrow. You can come with me.”

And perhaps that was Beruka's world. Action, Consequence. Permission, Agreement. Beruka decided, and Beruka acted, and in her voice there was something more than a flat affect.

“Lady Camilla will understand,” is what she said.

What about letting go of that shame?

Eyes, puffy and red, looked to Beruka. And Beruka, for her friend’s comfort and her own, looked away, tensing her lips to dissuade the blush crawling up her cheeks. Her fingers squeezed around Selena, autonomous, without her intent.

“But you're wrong, anyway. There is someone. You go off at night and stare up into the moon. You have secret conversations with a few others. There is the mark on your shoulder.”

A flinch imperceptible to most others, perhaps even those as perceptive as Lady Camilla herself, would not go unnoticed by a trained assassin like Beruka. It coincides with the mention of her tattoo. Selena looked down, staring at a patch of grit on the cold stone floor. After all this, she could hardly stand to look at her friend. She clung to what few words she could understand as the torrent wracked her. 'Not perfect'; 'Camilla will understand.'

“You don't need to tell me about them. But I know that they are out there, that you think on them. You're here, and you're proof.” And then? A smirk. A SMIRK, an insufferable SMIRK from the horrible little smoke-wisp. “If the rest of us do not suffice.”

Impulse took Selena, at that smirk.

“You brat!” She sniped, pouncing upon her friend and pinning her to the bed—and apparently quite unaware, as she'd have to be—of the risk she takes in doing so.

But Beruka was her friend, after all.

Pinning Beruka to the bed, Selena grinned through her teary eyes and snotty face. “'If the rest of us do not suffice' I never thought I'd see the day when you were passive-aggressive about something, y-you little twerp.”

A silence fell over her, as she noticed a flick of Beruka's eyes towards her wrist. “What? What are you looking at?”

Protectively, she released her grip on Beruka, holding her wrist in her hand, and her arm to her chest, to cover the telltale glint and jingle of gold in the moonlight.

“I only wore it because...”

She swallows...

“I thought I'd miss you... at the dinner... if I didn't.”

With an uncharacteristic show of sentimentality, Beruka mimicked the motion, holding tight to her own wrist, to the silver that gleamed there.

It clung to her. She'd insisted. It couldn't make noise, whatever they got, as it could endanger her missions. It couldn't wear her down or slip up or down her wrist, or give anyone purchase to hold her.

Most importantly, Selena liked silver. So soft, weighty, silent gold for Selena; moonish, shimmering silver for Beruka. Platinum, rare and commanding, for Lady Camilla.

Her self-control was exceptional; Beruka did not fear striking out. But touching it, knowing that bond against her skin, quieted the reactions in her mind, and gave her permission to rest.

“I'm glad you wore it,” Beruka said.

With an imperious flare of her nose, and an impudent flick of her ponytails, Selena looked up and away as good as any brattish princess in any kingdom such as Nohr. “Don't get any big ideas from it either. I'm still p-pissed about having to carry your secrets.”

There was a smile on that mousey little face! Even as Beruka folded her arms up around her aggressive friend. “No big ideas.” Her voice was foreboding as ever. Some things would never change, perhaps.” I'm an assassin of Nohr, a retainer to Lady Camilla. I know just where my place is.” But the tenor of it was oddly warm, deep. Satisfied. As though that place, just at that moment, were a generous, wonderful one. “It won't be your secret to keep any longer. And I'll keep yours.”

Beruka noticed the slackening tension in Selena’s brows and shoulders. The briefest suggestion of a smile on her lips. Done with her playful aggression, Selena flopped into the bed beside her friend and gave a deep sigh, staring at the darkened shadows of the ceiling as her fingertips idly toyed with the light bit of silver at Beruka's wrist, and down lower, to roll her fingertips along the back of Beruka’s hand. “You better let me meet that seamstress before Lady Camilla does; I'll be less judgmental.” Her finger slipped lazily along Beruka's pinky, she yawned, and her face seemed at peace... despite the rain barrel's-worth of tears drying on it.

At the feel of fingertips across her own, the claiming of her hand, Beruka gasped softly. “Neither you nor Lady Camilla will change my mind. Or hers. But I'll introduce you to Oboro first, if you'll do the same for me, when your secret love comes to take you back to your home.” She turns her head to the side; her eyes are red, when she looks back to the ceiling.

She let her cheek fall against the pillow, regarding Beruka with quiet eyes for a while. “Hey, Beruka...” She said softly. “You won't tell Lady Camilla any of this? Promise?”

Her hand closed over her friend's.

A squeeze of her friend's hand; a deep, slow, dear breath. Fear in her heart? Perhaps.

Perhaps that is her new life? Perhaps the nature of trust, love, friendship; not just the game she has entered? She'd never have thought they'd be more frightening than claiming lives.

“Promise.”

“Promise,” Selena replied, softly. Her eyes had grown heavy, but she was somehow unable to sleep.

She sat there, watching her friend in the lamplight, and her friend watching her, feeling a smile build up in her gut until she couldn't stop it from spreading across her face as well. And when it did, she was rewarded with the taciturn, but relatively unguarded response of Beruka's as well. At the sight, Selena squeezed a bit firmer around Beruka's hand.

Before she knew it, however, Beruka's eyes had slipped closed in sleep. Selena breathed out a sleepy sigh herself, and moved to extract herself...

...only to discover her friend clung to her in her sleep with all the strength (though only half the limbs) of some sort of overlarge and shockingly possessive crab.

So, duly trapped, Selena rolled onto her back with a sigh that morphed into a shallow yelp as she realized she'd never finished putting on her _own_ ointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope I won't leave y'all hanging so long next time. Again, please take a look at my [patreon](https://www.patreon.com/zohg) and, honestly, any comments I get at all mean the absolute WORLD to me. Either way, thank you so much for reading and thank you for your support! \o/
> 
> Also, thank you so much to @OtoRose, who co-wrote this with me, and who, tbqf, it could not have possibly existed without. ;-; love ya bb.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this work and feel like leaving a comment, I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> If you’re interested in my other works, you can find my stuff at my website [bespokesmut.com](http://www.bespokesmut.com), you can drop requests for short fiction in my [tumblr ask box](http://zoegmiller.tumblr.com), you can find my commission info [here](https://zoegmiller.wordpress.com/commissions/), and don’t forget to look me up on [patreon](https://www.patreon.com/zohg)!!
> 
> <3 Thank you for reading! <3


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